Cards on the Table (13 page)

“When Mrs. Eldon went abroad, Miss Meredith went to Devonshire and took a post as companion to an aunt of a school friend. The school friend is the girl she is living with now—Miss Rhoda Dawes. She was there over two years until Miss Dawes got too ill and she had to have a regular trained nurse. Cancer, I gather. She's alive still, but very vague. Kept under morphia a good deal, I imagine. I had an interview with her. She remembered ‘Anne,' said she was a nice child. I also talked to a neighbour of hers who would be better able to remember the happenings of the last few years. No deaths in the parish except one or two of the older villagers, with whom, as far as I can make out, Anne Meredith never came into contact.

“Since then there's been Switzerland. Thought I might get on the track of some fatal accident there, but nothing doing. And there's nothing in Wallingford either.”

“So Anne Meredith is acquitted?” asked Poirot.

Battle hesitated.

“I wouldn't say that. There's
something
… There's a scared look about her that can't quite be accounted for by panic over Shaitana. She's too watchful. Too much on the alert. I'd swear
there was
something
. But there it is—she's led a perfectly blameless life.”

Mrs. Oliver took a deep breath—a breath of pure enjoyment.

“And yet,” she said, “Anne Meredith was in the house when a woman took poison by mistake and died.”

She had nothing to complain of in the effect her words produced.

Superintendent Battle spun round in his chair and stared at her in amazement.

“Is this true, Mrs. Oliver? How do you know?”

“I've been sleuthing,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I get on with girls. I went down to see those two and told them a cock-and-bull story about suspecting Dr. Roberts. The Rhoda girl was friendly—oh, and rather impressed by thinking I was a celebrity. The little Meredith hated my coming and showed it quite plainly. She was suspicious. Why should she be if she hadn't got anything to hide? I asked either of them to come and see me in London. The Rhoda girl did. And she blurted the whole thing out. How Anne had been rude to me the other day because something I'd said had reminded her of a painful incident, and then she went on to describe the incident.”

“Did she say when and where it happened?”

“Three years ago in Devonshire.”

The superintendent muttered something under his breath and scribbled on his pad. His wooden calm was shaken.

Mrs. Oliver sat enjoying her triumph. It was a moment of great sweetness to her.

“I take off my hat to you, Mrs. Oliver,” he said. “You've put one over on us this time. That is very valuable information. And it just shows how easily you can miss a thing.”

He frowned a little.

“She can't have been there—wherever it was—long. A couple of months at most. It must have been between the Isle of Wight and going to Miss Dawes. Yes, that could be it right enough. Naturally Mrs. Eldon's sister only remembers she went off to a place in Devonshire—she doesn't remember exactly who or where.”

“Tell me,” said Poirot, “was this Mrs. Eldon an untidy woman?”

Battle bent a curious gaze upon him.

“It's odd your saying that, M. Poirot. I don't see how you could have known. The sister was rather a precise party. In talking I remember her saying ‘My sister is so dreadfully untidy and slapdash.' But how did
you
know?”

“Because she needed a mother's help,” said Mrs. Oliver.

Poirot shook his head.

“No, no, it was not that. It is of no moment. I was only curious. Continue, Superintendent Battle.”

“In the same way,” went on Battle, “I took it for granted that she went to Miss Dawes straight from the Isle of Wight. She's sly, that girl. She deceived me all right. Lying the whole time.”

“Lying is not always a sign of guilt,” said Poirot.

“I know that, M. Poirot. There's the natural liar. I should say she was one, as a matter of fact. Always says the thing that sounds best. But all the same it's a pretty grave risk to take, suppressing facts like that.”

“She wouldn't know you had any idea of past crimes,” said Mrs. Oliver.

“That's all the more reason for not suppressing that little piece of information. It must have been accepted as a bona fide
case of accidental death, so she'd nothing to fear—
unless she were guilty
.”

“Unless she were guilty of the Devonshire death, yes,” said Poirot.

Battle turned to him.

“Oh, I know. Even if that accidental death turns out to be not so accidental,
it doesn't follow that she killed Shaitana
. But these other murders are murders too. I want to be able to bring home a crime to the person responsible for it.”

“According to Mr. Shaitana, that is impossible,” remarked Poirot.

“It is in Roberts' case. It remains to be seen if it is in Miss Meredith's. I shall go down to Devon tomorrow.”

“Will you know where to go?” asked Mrs. Oliver. “I didn't like to ask Rhoda for more details.”

“No, that was wise of you. I shan't have much difficulty. There must have been an inquest. I shall find it in the coroner's records. That's routine police work. They'll have it all taped out for me by tomorrow morning.”

“What about Major Despard?” asked Mrs. Oliver. “Have you found out anything about him?”

“I've been waiting for Colonel Race's report. I've had him shadowed, of course. One rather interesting thing, he went down to see Miss Meredith at Wallingford. You remember he said he'd never met her until the other night.”

“But she is a very pretty girl,” murmured Poirot.

Battle laughed.

“Yes, I expect that's all there is to it. By the way, Despard's
taking no chances. He's already consulted a solicitor. That looks as though he's expecting trouble.”

“He is a man who looks ahead,” said Poirot. “He is a man who prepares for every contingency.”

“And therefore not the kind of man to stick a knife into a man in a hurry,” said Battle with a sigh.

“Not unless it was the only way,” said Poirot. “He can act quickly, remember.”

Battle looked across the table at him.

“Now, M. Poirot, what about your cards? Haven't seen your hand down on the table yet.”

Poirot smiled.

“There is so little in it. You think I conceal facts from you? It is not so. I have not learned many facts. I have talked with Dr. Roberts, with Mrs. Lorrimer, with Major Despard (I have still to talk to Miss Meredith) and what have I learnt? This! That Dr. Roberts is a keen observer, that Mrs. Lorrimer on the other hand has a most remarkable power of concentration but is, in consequence, almost blind to her surroundings. But she is fond of flowers. Despard notices only those things which appeal to him—rugs, trophies of sport. He has neither what I call the outward vision (seeing details all around you—what is called an observant person) nor the inner vision—concentration, the focusing of the mind on one object. He has a purposefully limited vision. He sees only what blends and harmonizes with the bent of his mind.”

“So those are what you call facts—eh?” said Battle curiously.

“They
are
facts—very small fry—perhaps.”

“What about Miss Meredith?”

“I have left her to the end. But I shall question her too as to what she remembers in that room.”

“It's an odd method of approach,” said Battle thoughtfully. “Purely psychological. Suppose they're leading you up the garden path?”

Poirot shook his head with a smile.

“No, that would be impossible. Whether they try to hinder or to help, they necessarily reveal their
type of mind
.”

“There's something in it, no doubt,” said Battle thoughtfully. “I couldn't work that way myself, though.”

Poirot said, still smiling:

“I feel I have done very little in comparison with you and with Mrs. Oliver—and with Colonel Race. My cards, that I place on the table, are very low ones.”

Battle twinkled at him.

“As to that, M. Poirot, the two of trumps is a low card but it can take any one of three aces. All the same, I'm going to ask you to do a practical job of work.”

“And that is?”

“I want you to interview Professor Luxmore's widow.”

“Why do you not do that yourself?”

“Because, as I said just now, I'm off to Devonshire.”

“Why do you not do that yourself?” repeated Poirot.

“Won't be put off, will you? Well, I'll speak the truth. I think you'll get more out of her than I shall.”

“My methods being less straightforward?”

“You can put it that way if you like,” said Battle grinning. “I've heard Inspector Japp say that you've got a tortuous mind.”

“Like the late Mr. Shaitana?”

“You think he would have been able to get things out of her?”

Poirot said slowly:

“I rather think he
did
get things out of her!”

“What makes you think so?” asked Battle sharply.

“A chance remark of Major Despard's.”

“Gave himself away, did he? That sounds unlike him.”

“Oh, my dear friend, it is impossible
not
to give oneself away—unless one never opens one's mouth! Speech is the deadliest of revealers.”

“Even if people tell lies?” asked Mrs. Oliver.

“Yes, madame, because it can be seen at once that you tell
a certain kind of lie
.”

“You make me feel quite uncomfortable,” said Mrs. Oliver, getting up.

Superintendent Battle accompanied her to the door and shook her by the hand.

“You've been the goods, Mrs. Oliver,” he said. “You're a much better detective than that long lanky Laplander of yours.”

“Finn,” corrected Mrs. Oliver. “Of course he's idiotic. But people like him. Good-bye.”

“I, too, must depart,” said Poirot.

Battle scribbled an address on a piece of paper and shoved it into Poirot's hand.

“There you are. Go and tackle her.”

Poirot smiled.

“And what do you want me to find out?”

“The truth about Professor Luxmore's death.”

“
Mon cher
Battle! Does anybody know the truth about anything?”

“I'm going to about this business in Devonshire,” said the superintendent with decision.

Poirot murmured:

“I wonder.”

T
he maid who opened the door at Mrs. Luxmore's South Kensington address looked at Hercule Poirot with deep disapproval. She showed no disposition to admit him into the house.

Unperturbed, Poirot gave her a card.

“Give that to your mistress. I think she will see me.”

It was one of his more ostentatious cards. The words “Private Detective” were printed in one corner. He had had them specially engraved for the purpose of obtaining interviews with the so-called fair sex. Nearly every woman, whether conscious of innocence or not, was anxious to have a look at a private detective and find out what he wanted.

Left ignominiously on the mat, Poirot studied the doorknocker with intense disgust at its unpolished condition.

“Ah! for some Brasso and a rag,” he murmured to himself.

Breathing excitedly the maid returned and Poirot was bidden to enter.

He was shown into a room on the first floor—a rather dark
room smelling of stale flowers and unemptied ashtrays. There were large quantities of silk cushions of exotic colours all in need of cleaning. The walls were emerald green and the ceiling was of pseudo copper.

A tall, rather handsome woman was standing by the mantelpiece. She came forward and spoke in a deep husky voice.

“M. Hercule Poirot?”

Poirot bowed. His manner was not quite his own. He was not only foreign but ornately foreign. His gestures were positively baroque. Faintly, very faintly, it was the manner of the late Mr. Shaitana.

“What did you want to see me about?”

Again Poirot bowed.

“If I might be seated? It will take a little time—”

She waved him impatiently to a chair and sat down herself on the edge of a sofa.

“Yes? Well?”

“It is, madame, that I make the inquiries—the private inquiries, you understand?”

The more deliberate his approach, the greater her eagerness.

“Yes—yes?”

“I make inquiries into the death of the late Professor Luxmore.”

She gave a gasp. Her dismay was evident.

“But why? What do you mean? What has it got to do with you?”

Poirot watched her carefully before proceeding.

“There is, you comprehend, a book being written. A life of your eminent husband. The writer, naturally, is anxious to get all his facts exact. As to your husband's death, for instance—”

She broke in at once:

“My husband died of fever—on the Amazon.”

Poirot leaned back in his chair. Slowly, very, very slowly, he shook his head to and fro—a maddening, monotonous motion.

“Madame—madame—” he protested.

“But I know! I was there at the time.”

“Ah, yes, certainly. You were
there
. Yes, my information says so.”

She cried out:

“What information?”

Eyeing her closely Poirot said:

“Information supplied to me by the late Mr. Shaitana.”

She shrank back as though flicked with a whip.

“Shaitana?” she muttered.

“A man,” said Poirot, “possessed of vast stores of knowledge. A remarkable man. That man knew many secrets.”

“I suppose he did,” she murmured, passing a tongue over her dry lips.

Poirot leaned forward. He achieved a little tap on her knee.

“He knew, for instance, that your husband did not die of fever.”

She stared at him. Her eyes looked wild and desperate.

He leaned back and watched the effect of his words.

She pulled herself together with an effort.

“I don't—I don't know what you mean.”

It was very unconvincingly said.

“Madame,” said Poirot, “I will come out into the open. I will,” he smiled, “place my cards upon the table. Your husband did not die of fever.
He died of a bullet!
”

“Oh!” she cried.

She covered her face with her hands. She rocked herself to and fro. She was in terrible distress. But somewhere, in some remote fibre of her being, she was enjoying her own emotions. Poirot was quite sure of that.

“And therefore,” said Poirot in a matter-of-fact tone, “you might just as well tell me the whole story.”

She uncovered her face and said:

“It wasn't in the least way you think.”

Again Poirot leaned forward—again he tapped her knee.

“You misunderstand me—you misunderstand me utterly,” he said. “I know very well that it was not you who shot him. It was Major Despard. But you were the cause.”

“I don't know. I don't know. I suppose I was. It was all too terrible. There is a sort of fatality that pursues me.”

“Ah, how true that is,” cried Poirot. “How often have I not seen it? There are some women like that. Wherever they go, tragedies follow in their wake. It is not their fault. These things happen in spite of themselves.”

Mrs. Luxmore drew a deep breath.

“You understand. I see you understand. It all happened so naturally.”

“You travelled together into the interior, did you not?”

“Yes. My husband was writing a book on various rare plants. Major Despard was introduced to us as a man who knew the conditions and would arrange the necessary expedition. My husband liked him very much. We started.”

There was a pause. Poirot allowed it to continue for about a minute and a half and then murmured as though to himself.

“Yes, one can picture it. The winding river—the tropical night—the hum of the insects—the strong soldierly man—the beautiful woman….”

Mrs. Luxmore sighed.

“My husband was, of course, years older than I was. I married as a mere child before I knew what I was doing….”

Poirot shook his head sadly.

“I know. I know. How often does that not occur?”

“Neither of us would admit what was happening,” went on Mrs. Luxmore. “John Despard never said anything. He was the soul of honour.”

“But a woman always knows,” prompted Poirot.

“How right you are … Yes, a woman knows … But I never showed him that I knew. We were Major Despard and Mrs. Luxmore to each other right up to the end … We were both determined to play the game.”

She was silent, lost in admiration of that noble attitude.

“True,” murmured Poirot. “One must play the cricket. As one of your poets so finely says, ‘I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not cricket more.'”

“Honour,” corrected Mrs. Luxmore with a slight frown.

“Of course—of course—honour. ‘Loved I not honour more.'”

“Those words might have been written for us,” murmured Mrs. Luxmore. “No matter what it cost us, we were both determined never to say the fatal word. And then—”

“And then—” prompted Poirot.

“That ghastly night.” Mrs. Luxmore shuddered.

“Yes?”

“I suppose they must have quarrelled—John and Timothy, I mean. I came out of my tent … I came out of my tent….”

“Yes—yes?”

Mrs. Luxmore's eyes were wide and dark. She was seeing the scene as though it were being repeated in front of her.

“I came out of my tent,” she repeated. “John and Timothy were—Oh!” she shuddered. “I can't remember it all clearly. I came between them … I said ‘No—no, it isn't
true!
' Timothy wouldn't listen. He was threatening John. John had to fire—in self-defence. Ah!” she gave a cry and covered her face with her hands. “He was dead—stone dead—shot through the heart.”

“A terrible moment for you, madame.”

“I shall never forget it. John was noble. He was all for giving himself up. I refused to hear of it. We argued all night. ‘For my sake,' I kept saying. He saw that in the end. Naturally he couldn't let me suffer. The awful publicity. Think of the headlines.
Two Men and a Woman in the Jungle. Primeval Passions
.

“I put it all to John. In the end he gave in. The boys had seen and heard nothing. Timothy had been having a bout of fever. We said he had died of it. We buried him there beside the Amazon.”

A deep, tortured sigh shook her form.

“And then—back to civilization—and to part forever.”

“Was it necessary, madame?”

“Yes, yes. Timothy dead stood between us just as Timothy alive had done—more so. We said good-bye to each other—forever. I meet John Despard sometimes—out in the world. We smile, we speak politely—no one would ever guess that there was anything
between us. But I see in his eyes—and he in mine—that we will never forget….”

There was a long pause. Poirot paid tribute to the curtain by not breaking the silence.

Mrs. Luxmore took out a vanity case and powdered her nose—the spell was broken.

“What a tragedy,” said Poirot, but in a more everyday tone.

“You can see, M. Poirot,” said Mrs. Luxmore earnestly, “that the truth must never be told.”

“It would be painful—”

“It would be impossible. This friend, this writer—surely he would not wish to blight the life of a perfectly innocent woman?”

“Or even to hang a perfectly innocent man?” murmured Poirot.

“You see it like that? I am glad. He
was
innocent. A
crime passionnel
is not really a crime. And in any case it was self-defence. He
had
to shoot. So you do understand, M. Poirot, that the world must continue to think Timothy died of fever?”

Poirot murmured.

“Writers are sometimes curiously callous.”

“Your friend is a woman-hater? He wants to make us suffer? But you must not allow that. I shall not allow it. If necessary I shall take the blame on myself. I shall say
I
shot Timothy.

She had risen to her feet. Her head was thrown back.

Poirot also rose.

“Madame,” he said as he took her hand, “such splendid self-sacrifice is unnecessary. I will do my best so that the true facts shall never be known.”

A sweet womanly smile stole over Mrs. Luxmore's face. She
raised her hand slightly, so that Poirot, whether he had meant to do so or not, was forced to kiss it.

“An unhappy woman thanks you, M. Poirot,” she said.

It was the last word of a persecuted queen to a favoured courtier—clearly an exit line. Poirot duly made his exit.

Once out in the street, he drew a long breath of fresh air.